Monthly Archives: June 2012

I want to tell you about a friend of mine. Of course I can’t actually call him a friend as such, he doesn’t get on well with anyone, but I suppose I’m the nearest thing he’s got to someone who can remain in his company and not lose an eye.

His name’s Frank and he’s a pigeon. Dead Frank, we call him. He’s called Dead Frank because of his disposition and the fact that he’s been hit by numerous buses and mauled by a rottweiller and, if you can believe him, a bear and is just too bloody stubborn to believe he couldn’t live through all that.

He’s not a handsome chap.

I’m one of the very few people he can just about trust and leave intact because we do each other favours. I let him sleep in my spare pigeon loft and get him food and beer now and then and he sometimes, when he’s feeling generous, acts as muscle when I need to put the fear up those scrotes that try to rip me off in my “business” dealings.

He looks like a chewed rock. He’s lost half his beak, all of his toes, most of his feathers and his sense of humour.

The other day, he swears blind, he discovered a lion limping and exhausted and on the verge of collapse. His instinct was to beat the living crap out of it but then he noticed that the lion had a thorn stuck painfully in his paw.

Feeling a rare burst of sympathy (if you knew him you’d know how rare that is) he refrained from the beating and instead said, “Grow up, you girl!” And left him to it.

Later that day Dead Frank was cornered by a gang of ravens (yeah, those ravens, Tower of London Posse) who “didn’t like his face” or some such bollocks excuse and started laying into him.